Observations of an Orderly eBook

That is not specially Tommy Atkins; it is homo
sapiens of the hearthside, whether in suburban
villa or in slum, for ever dissatisfied (more especially
with his victuals) and for ever evoking our affection
all the same.

No; Tommy Atkins is never twice alike. He is
unanimous on few debatable matters. One of them,
as I have said, is the desirability of finishing the
war—­in the proper way. (But even here there
are differences as to what constitutes the proper
way.) Another is (I trust I shall not shock the reader)
the extreme displeasingness of life at the front.
I would not say that our hospital patients are positively
thankful to be wounded, nor that they do not wish
to recover with reasonable rapidity. But that
they are glad to be safe in England once more is undeniable.
The more honour to them that few, if any, flinch from
returning to duty—­when they know only too
well what that duty consists of. But they make
no bones about their opinion. Not long ago I was
the conductor of a party of convalescents who went
to a special matinee of a military drama. The
theatre was entirely filled with wounded soldiers from
hospitals, plus a few nurses and orderlies. It
was an inspiring sight. The drama went well,
and its patriotic touches received their due meed
of applause. But when the heroine, in a moving
passage, declared that she had never met a wounded
British soldier who was not eager to get back to the
front, there arose, in an instant, a spontaneous shout
of laughter from the whole audience. That was
Tommy Atkins unanimous for once.

He was unanimous too, I should add, in perceiving
immediately that the actress had been disconcerted
by his roar of amusement. The poor girl’s
emotional speech had been ruined. She looked blank
and stood irresolute. At once a burst of hand-clapping
took the place of the laughter. It was not ironical,
it was friendly and apologetic. “Go ahead!”
it said. “We’re sorry. Those
lines aren’t your fault, anyway. You spoke
them very prettily, and it was a shame to laugh.
But the ass of a playwright hadn’t been in the
trenches, and if your usual audiences relish that
kind of speech they haven’t been there either.”

So much for Tommy Atkins in his unanimous mood—­unanimously
condemning cant and at the same time unanimously courteous.
Now that I come to reflect I believe that, in his
best moments, these are perhaps the only two points
concerning which Tommy Atkins is unanimous.
Whether he lives up to them or not (and to expect
him unflinchingly to live up to them in season and
out of season is about as sensible as to expect him
perpetually to live up to the photographs and anecdotes),
we may take them as his ideal. He dislikes humbug:
he tries to be polite. Could one sketch a sounder
scaffolding on which to build all the odd divergencies—­crankinesses
and heroisms, stupidities and engagingnesses—­which
may go to make the edifice of an average decent soul’s
material, mental and spiritual habitation?